MakeDamnSure
by Zamelot
Summary: How tall was she? 5 foot? Thin as a rail? 10 years younger? But she could still knock him out? Pathetic. But he loved her for it. [two shot]


_No specific time period. Based off Angels Dance and Angels Die about Pam and Jim Morrison trying to torture or kill the other. Title coined from TBS's new song. _

_eh... a mushy turn for me to take on...enjoy: (i hope)_

* * *

He adored that about her.

How that little slip of a girl who barely came up past the middle of his chest had, on more than one occasion, almost knocked him unconscious.

It didn't happen often, but when he did manage to upset her… she went ballistic. She'd use anything from kunai and kitchen knives to plates and the very shoes on her feet. Basically anything within her arm's reach could be used as a weapon against him. Her fists were usually last resort; her knowing he could easily overpower and somehow placate her. However, once, upset, being lulled out of her anger was the last thing she wanted. It only built up until the next time he made her snap.

Yet, here he was again; being chased from the house, lamp shades, pillows, and slippers not too far behind. It drove him almost to the point of laughter.

She was a thriller.

A bag of unpredictability topped off with a pretty face.

And how pretty she got when she was angry! Her sweet, child-like face blotched with red, her dark brows furrowed, and her tiny fists clenched hard, swinging wildly at him. She had a mean left hook. She caught him off guard one evening and jammed the left side of his jaw. He didn't blame her, however, but blamed stupidity on his part. He should have seen that coming.

About a block away from the house, he paused to recall the argument they'd had. He remembered it being screaming in frustration on her side and amusement on his. However, as of late, he couldn't recall what their argument had been over.

Most of the time, he got her angry for the sole reason of seeing her angry. He loved to feel that surge of defiant energy that erupted within her and the feeling of helplessness that ran through him, for he would never strike her back. But just as he loved to make her angry, he made her happy as well. Perhaps happy more so than angry. The amusement he found in her anger, he found in her happiness.

He enjoyed playing with her emotions and then watching them like a slideshow across her face: pleasure, infuriation, confusion, embarrassment. He couldn't get enough of it.

On the contrary, she never did anything to provoke him. She simply accepted what he was willing to give of himself and never fought for more out of him.

Guilt was what she made him feel most of the time. He couldn't exactly say he resented it, but he couldn't say he was comfortable with it either. Besides, it wasn't as if she did it on purpose.

It wasn't really her at all.

It was him and the fact that he couldn't live with her unquestionable acceptance of him. Living day in and day out without her ever looking upon him in distaste or pity. He supposed that he liked it that way.

He admitted that, in the very beginning, he'd been worried that their ten-year age gap would be the key to a restless, mundane relationship. He feared that she would turn her eyes upon someone closer to her own age or someone less frustrating. Yet she stayed faithful. Even after so many provocations.

While other women, in her position, would've perhaps screamed a few times, then given up and walked out; she had the nerve to scream the _entire_ time and maybe throw a few things before _he had _to run out; lest she bash his head in.

He continued down the street, lost in the memory of her bird like frame, thick dark hair—and one hell of an arm! He began to slow his pace, buying his time until he thought it to be safe to return home. He wanted to go home again soon. He wanted to make up for being such a pain and see her happy. He was tired of making her angry now. HE wanted to see her content.

But then, his journey back to his world was cut short:

"Shinomori-san!"

At the shrill sound of the younger of the two other women who worked at the Aoiya's voice, he paused irritably and turned slightly to glance at her over his shoulder as she made her way toward him along with one of the two cooks.

She ran up to him as best as she could what with a kimono on, then leaned against her knees in order to catch her breath.

"Shinomori-san, we were just on our way to see you and Misao-chan,"

Aoshi stared on at her, obviously making her uncomfortable, expecting her to continue.

"Um…I told Misao-chan about it a while ago—she might not remember—but Himura and Kaoru-san are coming to Kyoto tomorrow and we were going to have a dinner party. Could you…ask Misao-chan if she'd like to come?"

He nodded, impatient at the fact that they stopped him in the middle of the street to ask that. They should know that, of course, Misao would attend.

"Yes. She'd like that,"

The cook beside the young waitress seemed to sense Aoshi's impatience, and began to tug at her kimono sleeve, nodding his farewell to Aoshi. He took hold of the woman's upper arm and began to walk away. The woman struggled momentarily, but then gave up and followed the man down the street uneventfully.

In a drifting thought, Aoshi imagined himself and Misao in the cook and waitress's place. Had Aoshi ever tried to drag Misao away from someone, she wouldn't momentarily struggle; but perhaps (intentionally or unintentionally; he could never tell) elbow him in the stomach or 'backhand' him in the face over her shoulder. Her, being the free spirit she was, would never let anyone try to place authority over her.

But one thing he had learned over the years was that: she'd rather be shackled and bound than be separated from him.

The journey home didn't seem long since his head was filled with fantasies about her and plans of how to make her happy. In fact, he almost walked past the house.

He hurriedly opened the gate and was about to dive for the door, when he realized that all the lights in the house were out.

She must've fallen asleep waiting for him.

She always waited for him. Ever since he could remember. And if he didn't return home; she went out looking for him. Often further increasing her distress.

Aoshi reached for the door and yanked, fully expecting to see her slumped in the foyer by the stairs with a teapot and small candle beside her, but was equally surprised to discover something she'd never done before:

She'd locked him out.

* * *

"Do you ever intend on letting me back in?" 

She'd made him spend the night outside. Out on the steps of his own front porch. The closest to being inside she'd let him was by the open kitchen window by the sink in which he lingered by.

"I suppose that eventually it is inevitable," she responded curtly, the small quirk of her lips not going by unnoticed by him. She was enjoying this!

"Are you planning on making me have breakfast out here, too?" they had a rather low fence where the neighbors could clearly see everything that was going on on their side of the yard. It wasn't that he cared what others thought about him.

"Perhaps," she replied, not hiding her smile this time as she handed him a cup through the window. Of course, she must make him suffer! Damn that Delilah in her! He watched as she disappeared out of the kitchen.

Aoshi took advantage of her absence to examine the structure of the window. In these times of peace (or so said Himura) there was no need for him to find ways of getting in or out of houses by means of escape or ambush—however, Misao gave him a whole new reason.

The window was narrow, but luckily, so was he.

He climbed in, feet first, sliding in easily and only mildly worried about his shoulders.

Suddenly, her footsteps sounded down the hall.

Aoshi ducked in, forgetting he'd left his cup outside and pressed himself against the wall by the kitchen entrance, waiting to surprise her.

In she marched, head held high; obviously prod of what she'd done—until he caught her from behind. He wound his arms around her, one on her waist the other about her shoulders, and pressed the side of her head against his cheek.

"Cheater," she mumbled, turning her head slightly so she could feel his hot breath against her face.

And then she did the one thing he absolutely loved about her:

Her entire mood changed and she turned in his arms, winding her hands behind his neck while burying her face into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry I locked you out last night," she uttered softly. Her hands settled on his upper back; clutching at the fabric of his dark shirt.

Of course he'd forgive her.

She could lock him out a thousand times and he'd still forgive her regardless of an apology or not.

"Misao," he figured he'd tell her now, while she seemed to be in a forgiving, agreeable mood. "I saw Omasu yesterday and she vaguely mentioned…a dinner party…?" he trailed off, expecting her to continue or remember.

She jerked away from him suddenly, her eyes full of wonder. "Oh! That's right. Kaoru-san is coming."

Aoshi's arms fell at his sides as she drifted back to the cutting board. He decided to take a seat by the table and stay out of her way while she wondered about what to wear.

"Should I wear a kimono, Aoshi-sama?" she asked, the knife frozen in her hand at mid-chop.

"For me…or them?" he asked mildly.

She set the knife down and went to the cabinets where the plates lay. She climbed the counter and reached carefully for the knob.

"Should I wear the blue one, or the red one?"

"The yellow one does you justice,"

The plates and bowls fell out of the cabinet with a loud clatter and a yelp from Misao in surprise. Luckily, the plates were clay and wooden. They tumbled and spun, but did not crack. Misao gingerly climbed down from the counter, gathering what she could. Aoshi in return collected all that settled by him. Absently, Misao took what Aoshi handed to her.

"The yellow one?" she continued, a slight frown crossing her features. "What about you? What're you wearing, Aoshi-sama?"

"I don't intend on going," he responded quickly. He had no business among those people. They all lived equally different lives as of now. Besides, he didn't need anyone else. Women were a different matter. It seemed to him as if they always needed at least one female friend. "You should go enjoy yourself."

All he saw was her turn around. He hadn't even seen the knife until it was lodged into the wall inches from his head, the wooden handle shaking on the blade.

"What good are you for!!" she shouted. "You can't stay here! You have to—what do you really do for me?! You don't even reach high places for me! Do I need to ask for your help? Can't you go on and give it on your own accord?"

An empty rice bowl sailed through the air and shattered against the wall above his head just as he ducked out of the way.

He'd done it again. And so early in the morning.

He fled the kitchen and darted down the foyer, the clashing of pots, pans, and glass exploding behind him.

It hadn't even been on purpose this time.

He couldn't understand her anger over so little a thing. Was it something he'd said?

* * *

I origionally wanted to call it Madame Butterfly, based off the opera, but as you can see, it took on a whole new turn. I'll use that name in favor of another fic. My ma loved the play/movie... but her description of it to me... knocked yaoi off the map... The opera on the other hand... insert dramatic sigh here. 


End file.
